Deep Black

What the hell were the idiot Russians doing now?

“You better be fuckin’ Martin,” said a voice in English.

American English.

“I am,” he muttered. He realized he was still dreaming, but damn—damn—this felt real. He was lifted up and tossed down, carried over someone’s shoulder.

Not a dream. The man carrying him ran from the room, down the hallway to the steps.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m rescuing you. How the hell are you still alive? You a cat?”

“Put me down.”

“Sshhh.”

Martin’s rescuer paused at the base of the stairwell, glanced at something in his hand, then started running up the steps, taking them two at a time. He paused again at the top. Two men lay sprawled on the floor above.

Martin pushed his torso off the man’s back, trying to twist down. The man was large, with hair so blond it nearly shone. He had a handheld computer in his left hand and a long, boxlike gun in his right.

NSA!

“Hey, are you from Desk Three?” asked Martin.

“Let’s save the songs for later, OK? We still got to get the hell out of here and I don’t know if the place is bugged.”

“There are five hundred troops here, and scientists.”

“The troops are mostly gone, and I’m not worrying about any eggheads. Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“Nice underwear,” said the NSA op, putting him down.

“You look good in white.”

Martin felt himself flush. The man studied the handheld, which seemed to be getting a live video feed. Martin realized it must be a surveillance arrangement showing what was going on outside.

“OK, when I say go, you go, OK? Run right behind me.

When you see the helicopter, run for it.”

“Helicopter?” asked Martin.

“Get ready.”

47

As built, the Hind used a reasonably accurate, if somewhat kludgy, KPS-53AW sight, aiming its chin gun via a pair of control wheels and a primitive optical aiming set. Missiles were aimed with an ocular that looked something like what might be found on a microscope circa 1960.

The Poles had kindly removed these quaint, if obsolescent, devices before selling the chopper to Petro-UK. And while some — Fashona specifically — claimed to prefer some of the old muscle, the items the NSA wizards had selected to replace the original weapons were a vast improvement.

Six Hellfire missiles — considerably more accurate than the original AT-2 Swatters, or even the AT-3 Spirals fitted on E models — sat on triple rails that rode the outside of the winglets. Two GAU-13/A Gatling 30mm cannons, fitted into slightly modified Pave Claw GPU-5/A pods, sat next to the Hellfires. A four-barrel development of the highly successful GAU-8/A Avenger designed and fitted exclusively to the A-10 Warthog, the guns spewed 30mm armor-piercing and high-explosive incendiary versions at a rate around twenty-four hundred a minute. Not that you’d actually keep your finger on the trigger that long.

Last but not least were the two rocket pods. Here the Hind went native — the weapons were Russian 142mm S-5K rockets that could penetrate roughly nine inches of armor at about four thousand yards.

Which was maybe nine times as thick as the armor on the skins of the two ZSU-23s that Lia had zeroed in on the aiming reticule as the Hind popped up over the fence. The RWR sounded in the cabin behind her, indicating that the SA-6 radar had found and was locking on the helicopter. A half-second later, a space-launched missile known simply as a Vessel flashed down from above, smacking through the radar van at the opposite end of the compound like a Pedro Martinez fastball dividing a bowl of jelly. Three seconds after that, two more Vessels collided in the air opposite the east fence, temporarily drawing everyone’s attention from the approaching Hind.

As tracers from the ZSUs began arcing in the air, Lia got the launch cue from the targeting computer. Her first rocket missed high, sailing into the dirt directly behind it. The second rocket obliterated the top two barrels of the antiaircraft gun on the right. The third and fourth missiles, fired from the other winglet, took out the ZSU she’d actually been aiming at.

“Swinging around!” yelled Fashona, ducking the front of the helicopter.

Lia moved her thumb down on the joystick, selecting the left cannon pod only. She could see one of the sentries raising his gun toward them.

She pressed the trigger and erased him.

The helicopter stuttered in the air as the big gun reverberated and its stream of gas pushed against the tail. Fashona threw the Hind sideways, spinning around. As he did, Lia saw a tank or armored car moving near the bank of ZSUs she’d targeted earlier. She selected the Hellfires, locked, and fired.

“I thought we were saving the Hellfires until we’re sure they’re out of the building,” said Fashona as the vehicle exploded. “Otherwise you should’ve used them on the guns.”

“Just find Charlie, huh?”

“Troop truck, coming out of the barracks.” She selected the cannon, then stopped when she saw something else moving behind it.

“I’m on it — shit! Another armored car.”

“Hellfire the motherfucker.”

“What kind of language is that?” she asked, locking and launching the missile. “You can’t use Hellfire as a verb.”

48

As soon as Karr heard the Hind he shoved open the door. Two Russian Marines stood in awe about five yards away, staring in disbelief as the helicopter raked the compound with rocket and gunfire. Karr’s A-2 cracked twice and both men fell over as if they’d been sawed in half.

“Go! Martin! Go!” he yelled, moving out from the doorway. He did a quick turn, made sure the way was clear, then reached back and pulled the bewildered rescuee out from the door. He pushed Martin along the alley, then across the back to Building One. He got him down and glanced at the handheld display from the Bagel — the Russians and Charlie Dean had disappeared somewhere. One of the Zeus antiaircraft guns began firing from the far end of the base. Karr knew from the briefing that it wouldn’t be able to hit the Hind, but he also knew Fashona and Lia should have taken it out.

“Up the ladder, up the ladder!” he yelled to Martin. “Go! Go!”

Martin started to complain. He hadn’t put on his shoes, and his feet were cut and bleeding.

“Just get the fuck up now,” Karr said, grabbing his shirt and pushing him toward the ladder as two Russians came charging down the road. Karr leveled his gun and fired four bursts, missing with all as the men threw themselves to the ground. That was good enough for now, though — he jumped on the ladder and climbed up so quickly he nearly knocked Martin off at the top.

The compound rocked with gunfire, rockets, and secondary explosions. Karr saw one of the men he’d missed coming down the alley and fired another burst, cratering the man’s skull.

“Fashona!” he yelled as the helo whipped toward them. “We’re on the roof. Put down a line and haul Martin up.”